


Nightmare

by alice_dualswordlesbian



Category: BanG Dream! (Anime), BanG Dream! Girl's Band Party! (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First-Person and Third-Person Perspective, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Internalised Transphobia, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_dualswordlesbian/pseuds/alice_dualswordlesbian
Summary: Ako is tormented by one of her worst fears. But she won’t listen to it; she’s not alone, and she never will be.
Relationships: Shirokane Rinko/Udagawa Ako
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Extremely intense feelings of gender dysphoria and internalised transphobia, alongside allusions to external sources of transphobia. If you’re trans, please make sure you’re feeling okay before reading this!

It's like a folder of evidence in the corner of your computer. 

You can happily wonder through the virtual paradise, wearing a magic eye and a frilled skirt all you want. You’re free to be yourself. 

But that echo never stops tormenting you. 

Every click you make reminds you of the razors in that folder, laughing at you.

Every second you spend, staring at the beautiful lilac hair of your avatar, is another snapshot of your dirty, unhygienic strands. 

Every uniform pixel of peach on your digital arm is another reminder of all the countless bristles your actual skin has. Every unusual and unfashionable shirt in your wardrobe is a whisper of your inexperience, the years you missed out on what you wanted... and the way you now rely on her, to fill the gaps in the knowledge you're only starting to have.

And that knowledge is pitiful. Every silly, childish mistake you make is another portal to the past, tying you back to the person you realised you weren't. Every reverence you hold to the wolf, the demon or the beast, is just another realisation you're immature on your own. Some things didn't change, either, and that only makes it worse; every plastic case tucked underneath the consoles is now a piece of evidence against you, circling diagrams from afar. Every skull-adorned, dramatic and hot-blooded interest you have is another paragraph of ink on ‘masculine’ coding, in the court of the world's unseen gaze that hates what you are. 

And it never ends, the pointless lengths to which it goes. Every piece of your free will is treated as a revolting heathen. Ultimately, no matter what you do, where you go or what you become, it can’t escape you; because it’s a stake against you. Ultimately, every declaration of darkness you make brings accusations of hypocrisy from that folder. Documents and testimonies, of the only peers you once had calling your mannerisms ‘male’.

Isn’t that what you are?

It insists. 

You’re just running, aren't you? 

It deceives.

You’re running away from the truth, hiding in a fairy tale made by your mockery of a pink heart.

It manipulates, and tries to drag you back into that husk.

You threw the few friends you had away, and clung to the figures of inspiration in your life like the useless, unproductive, lifestealing baby you are.

What a mistake you've made.

'That's not true.'

You argue back. You always do. Because you know the truth about who you are.

There's no definition of ‘nature’. There’s no inherent engendering to a skull, or a game. There's no law on what makes you one thing or the other. The sword was yours to take, and you drew it. One step closer to the real person you wanted to be. A hero,

Red,

just like her. 

Silver,

Or her. 

Mythril,

Or her.

Caramel,

Or her. 

Violet,

...Or her. Captivating, flaming violet.

They're not replaceable slates. Each of them is a class all their own, each of their swords differing in so many regards, regardless of their shared identity. They’re all amazing in their own ways, be they a warrior, a bard, a knight, a healer, or a wizard.

And...

...you have a class all your own, too. Crimson became a ‘necromancer.’

-So are the thoughts of this vagrant.

From the skeleton she once was, a beautiful, inspiring, dependable young girl rockets forth, flames of the hydrangea firing from her limbs. The pillars of old inside find the life they never knew they could have, joining hands with the material that's new, and together they build a character anyone could look at and say 'that's her.'

...Or, at least, that’s what she thought she became. But it turns out replicating that persona away from the computer is a lot harder. Her real-life level was still a single digit, and she gained experience slower than anyone her age. Learning necromancy with her own two human hands was a feat she had to work towards day after day, week after week, and month after month. And in this world, making a mistake or slacking on the effort doesn’t just leave you static; it levels you down. For any one rock on the mountain she climbed, she ended up falling down twenty. The only reason she's ascended even the slightest bit overall is because of the heroes who kept pushing her up.

She stayed strong, obviously. She knows for a fact; there’s nothing else she is, and there’s nothing else she’d rather be. So she kept climbing, and swore she’d get better with time. Even if it’s hard, she can bring forth the resolve that'll always be, and remember the one and only truth.

...But the lies still hurt. For each and every failure she made, her folder filled itself up. And for each and every time she relied on others, it only filled up further.

Fighting it helps. Throwing the garbage away casually, without a care in the world for the finger it points at her, empowers her to continue her path.

But sometimes, she's tired. Sometimes, she's exhausted. It's too much, to try and fight it all the time, and she does just that. That’s why she eventually runs out of life, and collapses, praying to be revived. All she can do while she waits is succumb to the deluge of falsehoods, clinging to her sheets until it finally leaves.

This is one of those times.

Even in her dreams,

she’ll never truly be free, of the sneers that lie to her about what she should be.

...

...

...

“Sniff...”

It hurts.

The first thing she wakes up to is the sound of her own tears.

Light is faint and blue, the phones on the desk illuminating the ceiling. Nothing is visible enough to remind her of who she is. All it does is leave her with the nightmare claiming to be her body; and it hurts. Ako clutches at herself, digging her arms and hands into her abdomen and spine, and plays a recording of the music in her head until the nausea of her body snuffs it out.

“Sniff...”

She stays that way, a twister of tension wrapped in the sheets.

Until...

“Ako.”

Through her disgusting tears, she sees a pair of soft violet eyes.

“Ako. Are you... are you okay? I-I’m here.”

A hiccup, and a gross sob. A stream of gasps uncontrollably sputters, until it feels like an insult to cry anymore. She takes the embrace offered to her in bed, cradling into Rinko's arms, and wraps her own arms around Rinko in return. Because Rinko’s kind. She’s cool, and she’s warm. She deserves the best hugs she can get, and Ako’ll try to give just that.

“Ako...”

There’s still a few sobs. But when she rests on Rinko’s shoulder, she’s healed, and hates the idea of hating herself anymore. “Rinrin... I had a nightmare.”

“...Do you want to talk about it?”

The voice is a melody, softening her ears. Just like the whispering staves Rinko’s fingers play. “It’s okay. It wasn’t the cool kind of nightmare, anyway,” she croaks. “C-can we talk, instead?”

A nod. She feels a hand brush down the back of her hair.

“Thanks.” She gives Rinko a kiss on the forehead. “...Do you think I’m a girl, Rinrin?”

“...” Rinko’s frown is delicate. Considerate. Deserving of all the love it could get. “...Of... course. Of course you are.”

“Yeah. That’s what I think, too. There’s nothing else I could be.” Ako wipes her face. “But...”

...

...She pulls herself closer, and holds Rinko’s hand. Rinko brushes a stray curl of lilac hair away from her crimson eyes. “I feel like the entire world says I’m not, sometimes. Like it wants me to be something else.”

...

“I feel like one day, I’ll be thrown away by everyone until I tell them I’m not a girl. It’s that kind of really, icky thing. And I hate it, because I know it’s not true. I trust everyone. Especially you.”

Rinko moves apart a bit, and clasps Ako’s hand with both of hers.

“Thank you... Rinrin.” Ako smiles again. “Thank you for always believing in me.”

“...Mm.” Rinko grips tighter. “I’ll... always believe, in the Ako that loves me. So... please... know that I love you. I’ll always... love the Ako I met on that day. The same brave girl... that I love now.”

It’s with her companion's heartful cry,

that the folder is buried 

beneath an endless, comforting library.

“...Yeah. Thanks, Rinrin. I really, really love you.” She leans forth for a kiss on the lips, and gives the biggest smile she can muster. “We’re the coolest combination there’ll ever be. The most, um... magical...”

“...of them all?”

“...yeah. Yeah! The strongest magic there ever is!” A loud yawn immediately follows. “I’m... sleepy again now. Can we, um... c-can we snuggle? It’s so warm when I’m hugging you. I could go to sleep right away in your arms, Rinrin.”

Rinko lets out a faint giggle. “Yeah. I want you... to have a nice, happy dream. You deserve the best dreams ever...” 

The soft, comforting embrace returns, and the world feels all safe in here. If there’s anything out there that’s truly natural... it’s how relaxing it feels, to be in Rinko’s arms.

With two tender last words, Rinko’s sleep spell is complete.

“Goodnight... Ako.”

“...Goodnight, Rinrin...”

**Author's Note:**

> Take care of yourself, and you will become the person you want to be.


End file.
